law in Cornbury for the church and for Lord Hamon. And what’s this woman to you? As of this moment, she’s in my custody and the colt goes with me until he’s weaned. But, I am a fair man. Not unkind. I will let the Mistress Corbuc keep her dress and shoes. She will be transported to the prison first thing in the morning. She should be grateful she will not go there naked. I’ve a right to strip her now and drag her there before her trial, so egregious is her crime.”
He held the manacles out as if he expected her to put them on herself.
Guy kept his grip on Sybilla, but moved his other hand to his sword, his face stark with determination. He stepped toward the sheriff, the movement a calculated threat. “The disposition of Mistress Corbuc is not under your jurisdiction. The foal is nearly worthless, marked as it is. But she agreed to sell him to me for a half a shilling. And Mistress Corbuc has conscribed to work for me. I’ve employed her for three years’ worth of room and board. Her life is already mine, as is the foal’s. And I agreed to send a shilling to the widow for the old mare.”
Margery looked up, her eyes wide, her head bobbing in agreement.
Sybilla’s palms turned clammy. Sir Guy of Warwick just claimed her foal, and he had just claimed her––as his indentured servant—for three years!
God’s breath. She’d sworn to her mother she’d never be a servant. She’d seen the scars on her mother’s back, scars from a brutal master who’d beat her senseless and left her in a ditch to die. Bless the wicked master’s God-fearing wife. The woman feared her husband had committed murder—and demanded he set her mother free as penance. Her mother had kept the blood-stained servant’s dress in a chest for years thereafter as a reminder of what servants had to endure.
Sybilla shuddered. Sir Guy of Warwick could not truly expect her to give up her freedom. And she’d not part with Regalo, the colt who was her future, not for any price.
“No!” she blurted.
The word slipped out before Sybilla saw Margery’s pleading eyes. The poor woman looked stricken, as if she’d been given a brief reprieve, then ordered to the gallows. Addy wasn’t worth a shilling, even by the pound, but with that kind of money in her pocket, Margery could feed her family for a year.
Sybilla drew a deep breath and bit down on her lip. Giving up her freedom would save Addy, Margery, and her children. And it was the only way, at the moment, to avoid a stint in Gambolt prison. Her parents had died in that disease-infested place. They had not been criminals, just poor folk who could not pay their debtors. God’s bones, even if she lived through Gambolt prison, she’d be sentenced as a Separate. She’d not the courage or the strength for that.
Her heart raced. ’Twas best to play along with this ruse and survive.
She squared her shoulders and looked at Sir Guy. “I mean, no, Sir Guy, you agreed to give the widow Margery two shillings, not one.”
A sly grin spread across Sir Guy’s face. He spread his hands apologetically, as if he was sorry he had tried to cheat.
Sybilla bowed her head, feigning acquiescence. “And give her the half a shilling for my foal. I owe her for the hay.”
Guy opened his mouth as if in protest. He snapped his jaw closed and shrugged. “As you wish, Mistress Corbuc.” He nodded to Simon. “Sir Simon, pay the widow Margery. Use my winnings from the gaming tables, the coins I gave you for safe keeping last night.”
Simon swore an oath beneath his breath. He cut the small leather pouch from his belt and tossed it to Margery. “You’re lucky that he saved some back, but it’s all he’s got.” He shot a look at the sheriff, as if the last few words were meant for him.
Sybilla arched an eyebrow, surprised.
The sheriff folded his arms. “Sir Guy, I’ve orders from the bishop to arrest the Mistress Corbuc and Lord Hamon commands I find his stolen necklace. What do you suppose I should do?” He drummed his fingers on the leather purse buckled to his silver belt and cast a furtive glance at the priest. The priest bowed his head as if preoccupied with prayer.
Guy’s eyes locked with the sheriff’s. “Tell the bishop he will no longer be troubled by Mistress Corbuc. She has found employment as a servant to Sir Guy of Warwick and she will be leaving Cornbury. Tell Lord Hamon you could not find his necklace. You searched everywhere, even through the hay bales and the stall.” He said those last words slowly, hinting. He pointed his sword at the sheriff’s heart. “But know that I’m no thief, Sheriff. I do not take such accusations lightly. If you or Lord Hamon dares to challenge me on this, I relish the opportunity to settle, sword to sword. Man to man. No need to wait until the fighting season.”
The sheriff stepped back. “I will search the bales and stall myself. I promise I will find that necklace, Sir Guy. And if you and Mistress Corbuc are still in Cornbury at morning’s light, I’ll send ten men with pikes to hunt you down, if Hamon and his guard don’t find you first.” He thrust his fist at Sybilla and rattled the manacles. “Good riddance, Mistress Corbuc—that is, until we meet again. Given that you have cast your lot with this man,” he said, gesturing to Sir Guy, “you are just one step short of prison. You know the price for what you’ve done. You have escaped it, for now.”
Sybilla inwardly cringed, but she forced herself to stay composed.
The foal emerged from the shadowy corner. He sniffed the sheriff’s red shoes, spun around, flagged his tail and farted.
Sir Guy smirked at the sheriff. “Voilà. It appears my colt holds a rather low opinion of you, too.” He bowed with a flourish and touched the flat side of his sword to his forehead in mock salute.
The priest, Margery, and Etienne froze in silence, but Simon doubled over, hooting as Sybilla pressed her hand across her mouth to hide her grin.
The sheriff spat and planted both hands on his hips. “That colt is as common as a mule, Sir Guy. I know the rumors planted by the seer. She’s a Separate and a heretic. And Mistress Corbuc here has swindled you, for certain. The colt’s not magic and with four white socks, he is as worthless as she is. But ’tis a satisfying way to end my night. ’Tis clear you and Mistress Corbuc deserve each other. Get out of Cornbury before the cock crows.
With that he spun on his heels and left, the indignant priest stumbling behind him, scratching at the hay stuck in the seat of his cassock.
Chapter Three
Guy banged on the cottage door. “Smith? Open up,” he bellowed. The fog from his warm breath puffed from his mouth as he spoke.
He listened for an answer and watched Sybilla shift and stamp her feet beside him. They’d hiked a mile in ankle-deep snow to the smith’s and she’d not complained, but her face was pale and her lips had taken on a bluish tinge. Her golden hair and faded blue dress were dusted with a light coat of snow and in the pre-dawn light she looked like a woman from a mystic world, too young to be a ghost, but too fair and ethereal to walk the earth.
He pulled his cloak off and tossed it to Sybilla. “Put this on,” he ordered, annoyed he hadn’t thought to give it to her sooner. Turning, he pounded on the door. “Get up. We’ve need of your services and we’re freezing.”
The cottage door cracked open. Warmth seeped invitingly across the threshold and a man whose head was like a melon with bleary red eyes, stumbled forward.
The smith pulled a woolen blanket
